* * *
Panic swept through the Hotel Baltschug Kempinski. Everyone, from night manager to cleaning women, seemed to be in motion, trying to find a place to hide or something to do. Some people said they had seen men dragging a guest out of a room. Guests with hastily packed bags began lining up at the check-out counter. Someone somewhere pressed a button and the shrieks of the fire-alarm system filled the air.
In the blacked-out underground parking garage, drivers leaned on horns, yelled and screamed, banged their cars into other cars at the closed door. Car beams and cell phones illumined the darkness. Two motorists got out of their cars and began slugging each other. And all through the hotel people were shouting or whispering, in several languages, one word: Terrorists. They had struck luxury hotels like this elsewhere; now, many feared, it was Moscow’s turn.
Komov, who heard a police radio report of a possible terrorist attack at the hotel, instantly wondered about the Mossad whore. And he wondered about the American Hamilton.
He put on his old KGB uniform and called the security man he had assigned to Hamilton. No answer. He ran out of his apartment, took the elevator to the entrance and, flashing the FSB identification that he would never give up, commandeered a taxi.
At the hotel, he ordered a bellhop to give him a key card, took the elevator to the executive suite and found the bound bodyguard in the suite next to Hamilton’s. He searched there, though he assumed Hamilton would not be there. Returning to the bodyguard, he freed the sputtering man, who said he had been attacked by terrorists. Komov slapped the man in the face, cursed him, and collapsed into a yellow armchair. He felt faint. He was sweating. His face was pale, his heart pounding.
Komov, breathing hard, reached for the phone on the desk next to his chair and dialed the number to his office.
“Traitor Danshov,” he said. He felt his words were faint, like an echo. “Traitor Danshov, kidnap … kidnapping Hamilton from the Baltschug Kempinski. Seal off Moscow. Seal off Moscow.”
Komov tried to pull himself to his feet. The room seemed to be spinning. He thought of Lebed. I would have handed you a Tokarev pistol and left the room. Komov twisted and managed to get his Tokarev out of its holster. The bodyguard dived behind a couch.
The Tokarev had a hair trigger. Komov remembered that. He lifted the gun just high enough to get the barrel … the cold barrel … into his mouth. Yes, the trig …
58
Gregor had a story—and cash in dollars—ready in case of a roadblock. He knew that no one in Russia liked the FSB or the Moscow Regional Police Department, whose beat cops were affectionately known as “werewolves in epaulets.” And the Moscow police especially did not like the FSB. But they did like bribes.
Two werewolves were checking the vehicles in the line that was lengthening at the roadblock. Sighting the official-looking van, they strode directly to it. They wore blue uniforms, heavy gray coats, and mouton sheepskin hats bearing gold-wreathed badges.
Speaking in Russian with a strong Moscow accent, Gregor politely showed his FSB identification. The younger of the two cops took out a notebook and dutifully wrote down the name and number before handing the identification back.
“What is the roadblock for?” Gregor casually asked.
“Our superiors have declared a terrorist alert. ‘Seal off Moscow,’ they call it. And it’s a lot of shit,” the older cop said, slurring his words. His eyes were bloodshot and his nose reddish.
“What’s going on?” Gregor asked.
“They think there are terrorists in some big hotel,” he said.
The younger cop flashed a light into the van and asked, “Who are your passengers?”
“They are Americans with expired visas,” Gregor responded. “The rules are firm. They must be sent back to America. I am to put them on the next plane out of Russia.”
The cop turned the beam on Hamilton.
“That one,” Gregor said, “is drunk.”
“And the woman?” he asked, shining on Rachel.
“All American, as I said,” Gregor said, racing the engine. “They have caused you to stand in the cold, and so I believe you deserve a portion of their fines.”
“How much?” the older cop asked.
“They paid thirty-thousand rubles each,” Gregor replied. “Five hundred dollars in their money. Fines the FSB collect are closely watched these days. But I can deduct one of the fines for expenses—five hundred dollars for you and your partner.” He reached into his inner pocket, took out an envelope, and handed it to the older cop. He motioned to the younger cop to shine his light into the envelope and reached in, taking out five one-hundred-dollar bills.
This is the moment, Gregor thought. He either takes the money and arrests us or he takes it and lets us pass.
“Go directly to the front and let them through,” the older cop told his partner, who sprinted off, wondering what his share of the bribe would be.
“Well done, Gregor,” Rachel said. She recounted the dialogue while Gregor concentrated on cutting off the first car in line, to a cacophony of horns. She turned to Gregor and added, “There was one phrase—baba c vosu and then other words I couldn’t catch.”
Gregor, passing through the roadblock, laughed and said, “It’s one of those Russian proverbs that even Russians don’t understand. Translated literally, it is ‘Once the woman gets off the cart, it’s easier for the horse.’”
“And what the hell does that mean?” Bobby Joe asked.
“Russians like to get an idea across by painting a scene with words. It’s a way of saying ‘good riddance.’”
“Why does it have to be a woman getting off the cart?” Rachel asked.
“To answer that, I’d have to say a lot of proverbs,” Gregor said, still laughing.
A few minutes after they passed through the roadblock, Gregor turned on the radio and hunted for an all-news station, all-news meaning all the news that the government allowed to be broadcast. He listened for a short time and said, “The cop was right. Terrorists. They’re calling us terrorists. Not American terrorists. Just terrorists. Two guests of the Baltschug Kempinski were assaulted. No names. I guess that would be the FSB guy and Hamilton. And—”
At the sound of his name, Hamilton sat up straight and awakened. Looking around and discovering he was in a van, he said, “Is this how Lebed treats his special guests?”
“Keep quiet!” Gregor shouted in Russian. Without understanding the command, Hamilton leaned back and closed his eyes.
“Spasm reaction,” Reilly said, assuring the others. “I figure he’ll be out—or at least dazed—for about an hour.”
“What else is the radio saying?” Falcone asked.
“They said police have found the body of a man near the hotel—a Chechen and believe he’s one of the terrorists,” Rachel said. “They always blame the Chechens. They also found the body of an unidentified man stuffed in the Dumpster.”
“That could mean that when I dumped the body someone saw me,” Falcone said. “How could they have found it that fast?”
“Well, you got away,” Gregor said. “So maybe the witness was just a citizen.”
“Or,” Falcone said, “an FSB guy who got a look at the car full of terrorists he didn’t want to take on.”
“We’ll soon know if we’re spotted,” Gregor said, pointing to a sign that flashed by.
“Vnukovo Airport, ten klicks.”
59
When the Ministry for Civil Emergencies issued its “Seal off Moscow” order, Sheremetyevo, the capital’s major airport, shut down and began filling with thousands of people, some awaiting departure and others arriving from grounded aircraft. They were herded into secure areas by heavily armed police officers and special units of FSB border guards. A larger FSB force did the same in the Domodedovo International Airport, once a terrorist target. In 2011, a woman, later identified as a Chechen had walked into Domodedovo’s main terminal and set off a suicide bomb that killed thirty-seven people.
; Gregor’s choice of international airports, Vnukovo, had not been shut down. At the entrance, directional signs indicated why. Rachel translated them. They pointed the way to Heated Storage, Refrigerated Storage, Animal Quarantine, Dangerous Goods, and Radioactive Goods. Few of the planes that took off and landed at Vnukovo were passenger airliners. Most planes were carrying cargo or were private aircraft carrying the rich and powerful.
Gregor pulled up to the security kiosk for the general aviation terminal and showed his FSB identification card. Again he gave his expired-visa explanation and said he was escorting his passengers to a charter aircraft. The guard worked for the airport rather than the FSB or the Moscow Regional Police Department. He had been told long ago not to ask questions about activities in the general aviation terminal, where planes flew without filling out flight plans, or its VIP Lounge, where the oligarchs and their girlfriends awaited their flights or their Mercedes pickups.
He parked the van at the spot designated in the detailed drawing Drexler had received from Domino. Gregor had done his own reconnaissance from the roof terrace of the airport hotel and was able to confirm that the drawing was accurate. According to the drawing, the orange-and-red DHL cargo carrier would be waiting twenty meters from where he was parked.
Instead, in the harsh glare of floodlights, he saw a two-engine aircraft painted blue and white and bearing in black the words Israeli Global in English and Hebrew.
Falcone, seeing the plane and its name, said, “The Mossad strikes again.”
Gregor, mouth agape, turned to Rachel.
“The General decided to switch from DHL,” she said. “The change in aircraft had no effect on the plan. I didn’t tell you because I didn’t want you to worry.”
“Worry?” Gregor said, springing out of the van. “I’m not worried. All I want is to get the fuck out of here.” He opened all the doors and reached in to help Jack Beckley and Bobby Joe extract Hamilton. The tugging and sudden cold awakened Hamilton, who vainly struggled and muttered as they walked him toward the aircraft.
A fuselage door opened and a stairway emerged. Three minutes after the van arrived, all of its passengers were walking up the stairway and entering what looked like a dimly lit tunnel. Along the wall opposite the door was a row of a dozen seats locked onto one of the floor’s metal tracks. On each seat was a folded blue blanket, along with a silvery travel mug with a black plastic cap.
As they were enwrapping themselves in blankets, the cockpit door opened, framing a black-bearded man who looked to be in his mid-thirties. He wore a zipped-up leather jacket and jeans tucked into fancy brown cowboy boots. Earphones were draped around his neck.
“Welcome aboard,” he said, adding, with a bow, “Especially Miss Andrea Mitrovitz.” Rachel, fussing with her blanket, did not look up. He gaped at Falcone’s bloodied face, shirt, and suit coat. “What the hell? You’re okay?”
“Yes,” Falcone replied. “Somebody else’s blood.”
The man pointed to a restroom door. “Clean up fast. We are about to take off,” he said, raising his voice as the plane’s two turbos started up. “Passenger aircraft are grounded at all Moscow airports. But, for the moment, cargo can take off from Vnukovo.” The plane began moving down the runway. “We’ll be okay after we cross Russia’s Border Security Zone at the Latvia border. That’s about 730 klicks—450 miles for you Americans—so we’re looking at only—”
Someone in the cockpit yelled in Hebrew. The black-bearded man turned and entered the cockpit, closing the door behind him. Falcone returned to his seat, face clean, shirt pink and damp.
“What did he say?” Falcone asked Rachel, who sat next to him.
“Air control told us not to take off,” she said. The plane left the ground and tilted sharply upward.
Hamilton, unsnapping his seatbelt, suddenly stood. Reilly grabbed at him, catching him before he fell. “I demand to know why I am being … being kidnapped,” Hamilton said, his voice nearly drowned out by the roar of the plane.
“Please, Mr. Hamilton,” Reilly yelled, shoving him back into his seat and clicking the seatbelt. Bobby Joe Pickens, on Hamilton’s other side, patted him on the back and then stretched to put an arm around Hamilton’s shoulders in a gentle restraint.
“This is the pilot,” came from loudspeakers strung along the round ceiling. This new voice was heavy with accent. “We must—” The plane lurched. “We must take evasive—” Silence and a sharp dive.
No one spoke. They were strapped inside a noisy, dipping and rising cylinder without windows. Something was outside, forcing them to dive and weave.
Falcone sat on Reilly’s other side. “They’re trying to make us land,” Reilly said, yelling into Falcone’s ear. “I remember the feeling. We were in a C-12 Huron that strayed into Iran airspace and—” Falcone could not hear the rest.
“Su-34s,” the loudspeakers said. “No worry. We’re too low, too slow for them. We’re still on course.”
Cocky Israelis, Falcone thought. He remembered hearing about a quiet deal, before the Ukraine crisis began. The United States bought two Russian strike aircraft from the Ukraine Air Force and paid Russian pilots to fly them against U.S. Air Force F-15s in simulated dogfights. The Russians consistently out-maneuvered the American fighters.
Falcone wished he could see an Su-34 in action. But all he could do was imagine two of them zooming over and under the cargo plane, teasing it into evasive moves, advertising Lebed’s raw power. The latest Russian air force star was the Su-34, which NATO had respectfully named the Fullback. Putin had first displayed Su-34s to the world by sending them to Syria for attacks on rebel forces. Turkey promptly shot one of them down after the pilots repeatedly strayed into Turkey’s sovereign territory.
After a few plunges and rises, the Fullbacks disappeared and the cargo aircraft continued its climb. For the first time in the flight, it leveled off and flew steadily. Everyone tried to sleep; snoring came from a couple of the swathed bodies.
After a short time of quiet, the evasive maneuvering began again. Falcone assumed that this meant they were near the Latvian border and the Fullbacks were giving the aircraft a bullying farewell.
Latvia was one of ten former Warsaw Pact nations that had infuriated Russia by joining NATO. Even though Lebed had been continuing Putin’s intimidation campaign against the Baltic nations, Falcone believed that Russia would not invade Latvian airspace. The loudspeakers said, “Latvia below! We’re in friendly airspace.”
Falcone looked at his watch and guessed the plane would be over Riga shortly. He dozed off and in a little while awoke as the plane began a gentle descent.
The cloudy white trail of a missile passed through the dark sky and exploded about a mile in front of the plane. It shook the aircraft violently, and for a moment it seemed out of control. Missile fragments had struck the right wing.
The ground was rushing up as the pilot struggled to regain control and manage the descent. Runway edge lights flashed on. Another missile exploded miles away.
Despite control difficulties, the pilot expertly landed the plane and steered it toward a floodlit apron. The Israeli aircraft followed the original instructions for the DHL plane: Land at the Rumbula Air Base, a few miles outside Riga. After the Soviet-era base was closed in the 1970s, the runways became an impromptu used-car lot. Now they were again runways at a military air base. Following Russia’s intervention in Crimea and Ukraine, NATO strategists feared that Latvia might be the next nation that Lebed would stalk. The base was hastily reopened and restored as part of a NATO show of force in the Baltic.
As the plane came to a stop, two U.S. Army Stryker armored personnel carriers sped to the runway, flanking the plane. Each vehicle spun a 30-mm cannon around to aim it at the plane. The rear ramps of the Strykers opened. Nine soldiers in combat gear ran out of each vehicle and lined up on both sides of the plane.
A combat staff car, its machine gun manned, left the two-story headquarters building and stopped alongside the plane. An officer in com
bat gear stepped out. The pilot slid open his side window.
“I am Colonel Barbara Fitzgerald of the U.S. Air Force, commander of this base,” the officer yelled up to the pilot. “You have made an unauthorized landing at a restricted NATO facility. What is your cargo?”
“Seven people,” the pilot shouted down.
“Repeat.”
“Seven people.”
A fuselage door opened and the stairway appeared.
“Come out of the aircraft with arms raised and remain on the stairway,” Fitzgerald ordered. Led by Falcone, one by one, they stepped out, each one with shoulders draped in a blue blanket. Six looked relieved and puzzled. One looked angry. He stood out in his gym attire. The other men, in their white shirts and suits, could have been stumbling in from an all-night party. Rachel somehow retained her grace and acceptance of whatever fate might bring her.
Falcone looked down at Fitzgerald and shouted, “My name, Colonel, is Sean Falcone. I am a former senator and a former national security adviser to President Oxley.”
Fitzgerald looked at Falcone and said, “Well, Mr. Falcone, you told me who you were. What are you now? And what the hell are you and these other people doing here?”
“This is a very complicated situation, Colonel,” Falcone said. “And I need to discuss it with you … privately.”
Fitzgerald spoke into a shoulder microphone. Two pairs of headlights blazed in the darkness.
“You and the copilot will enter one of these vehicles. Under guard,” Fitzgerald said, again yelling up at the pilot. She turned toward the stairway. “You, Mr. Falcone, and your … companions will also enter these vehicles. Under guard.”
Gesturing and speaking to the nearest soldiers, she ordered one to enter each vehicle.
“I am being kidnapped!” Hamilton shouted.
Ignoring him and the others, Fitzgerald reentered the staff car, which led the other vehicles toward the headquarters building.
60
As the vehicle containing Falcone, Rachel, Gregor, and Bobby Joe drove off, Falcone got a fleeting glance at a Gulfstream G-550. It was parked at the floodlit apron of another runway. As soon as the vehicle stopped, Falcone sprang from his seat, threw down the blanket, and started toward Fitzgerald’s staff car. The guard, who had stepped out first, used his weapon to push Falcone toward the entrance of the building. It was a standard Soviet-era military building, squat and gray and far more walled than windowed.
Final Strike--A Sean Falcone Novel Page 26